


Red Velvet

by dreamofhorses



Category: Actor RPF, American (US) Actor RPF, Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Fancy Bathrooms, Fancy Fabrics, M/M, New York City, Pining, Red Velvet, Vaping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-04
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2019-05-18 07:12:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14848128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamofhorses/pseuds/dreamofhorses
Summary: Written for the heart eyes challenge and using the prompt of hanging out in New York.While he holds Timmy in his arms for the first time in many long weeks, time expands and then contracts. The embrace starts to feel longer than their separation, then shrinks again to the size of every time Armie has ever held Timmy: not long enough.





	Red Velvet

This is quite possibly the nicest bathroom Armie’s ever been in.

Sardi’s is a fancy restaurant and he knows that, so he really shouldn’t be surprised, but he’s still a little awed by the black and gold tile, the thick brass faucets, the plush velvet curtains that line the windows and match Armie’s own red velvet suit. The plush curtains that Armie is currently moving out of the way so he can get enough fresh air into the room to get a little buzz going without anyone noticing.

The run of “Straight White Men” had gone fantastically, with glowing reviews and no major mishaps during any of the performances. The cast’s wrap party outside was going terrifically; everyone had gotten along well and respected each other’s work, and the wine was flowing freely while Tom Skerritt entertained the room with stories of Hollywood in the 1970s. Armie even forgave him for having told a few--possibly  _ all _ \-- of those stories before.

It’s not any of the cast’s fault that they’re not Timmy.

It’s definitely no one’s fault that Timmy was filming, hadn’t been able to make it to the play during its run. Armie doesn’t begrudge him that for a second; he means it when he says he wants Timmy to have a long and prestigious career and Shakespeare adaptations in England are a great place to start. It just means that Armie needs a little...assistance...from his trusty vape pen to get into the same state of relaxation he could be in just by seeing Timmy. It was just like the novel, the first words Armie read, that he sees Timmy and he’s  _ back in Italy _ , back in the endless summer of a shoot where he’d developed feelings he couldn’t name, much less express, until it was too late. Until the press tour had started and he’d realized just how hard it was to ever look away from Timmy once you’d been allowed to look your fill for days,  _ weeks _ , under the Italian sun, and so he’d just kept staring. Stared at press conferences in Paris while Timmy removed his jacket, stared and whispered Timmy’s name while he was giving some particularly eloquent answer. And then the press tour and awards season had ended, and suddenly not only could he not stare at Timmy, he couldn’t even  _ see _ him, maybe an evening here and there and a lot of FaceTime but no chance to just  _ look _ , to just drink in the calm that came from watching the colors of a sunset reflected in the shine of Timmy’s hair.

Armie finally jimmies the window open, grunting a little at the weight of the leaded glass pane, and bends down so that he can blow the smoke from his vape out the window. The familiar earthy taste comforts him, and he knows the calm will soon follow, the calm that will keep the memory of Timmy’s eyes at bay until Armie lays down to sleep. They’ll be all he can see then, like always, but they haven’t yet made a drug that can erase Timmy’s face from his dreams.

Armie’s holding his second hit in his lungs when there’s a knock at the door. Seven of them, to be precise. Three spaced evenly and then four in quicker succession, a rhythm. A rhythm that only has meaning to Armie and one other person in the world, who by process of elimination must be the one knocking right now.  _ O-to-see-with-out-my-eyes _ . The universal code he and Timmy had used during filming and their press tour, sometimes to indicate it was time to leave for the set, sometimes to say it was a good time to go grab some wine and unwind after filming. Once Armie had opened the door to that knock and found Timmy, in an unusually pensive mood even for such a sensitive kid, and they’d stayed up all night just talking while Armie tried his best to give advice he thought would assuage Timmy’s worry about becoming another washed up actor whose success came too young.

Armie scrambles to the bathroom door and undoes the deadbolt that he’s thrown to make sure no one walks in on him. He throws open the door and there he is.  _ Timmy _ . He smells fresh, like citrus and lime and clean cotton, with just a hint of the recycled air of the plane he must have been on earlier in the day. He’s in a simple slim-cut black suit and thin black wool tie, and he launches himself at Armie as soon as Armie opens the door.

While he holds Timmy in his arms for the first time in many long weeks, time expands and then contracts. The embrace starts to feel longer than their separation, then shrinks again to the size of every time Armie has ever held Timmy:  _ not long enough _ . After a few minutes Timmy steps away, clears his throat, runs his hands nervously through his hair as if it doesn’t already look perfect. “You were--you were so great tonight, man.” Timmy’s eyes are shining, his voice openly admiring, and Armie knows this is the one thing he needed to make the run of the play perfect.

“You...you came? You saw it? I thought you were filming.” Armie wonders when his voice has gotten so low. Projecting to a crowd who doesn’t know him every night suddenly seems exhausting, and he’s thrilled to be able to talk to Timmy, who has always heard everything Armie says, even the things he doesn’t speak aloud.

Timmy follows Armie back to the window, throwing the deadbolt on the door again behind them as he steps away. “I was. We finished two days ago and I thought I’d surprise you. Did--did I surprise you?”

Armie leans against the windowsill, resting his back in its red velvet suit against the black velvet curtains. Suddenly he doesn’t even need any more weed. He wants to be sharp, to remember Timmy like this, here, for  _ him _ . He offers the vape pen to Timmy, who shyly accepts and draws on the pen slowly while Armie speaks. “Yeah, Tim, this was a surprise. It’s a fucking understatement that this was a surprise.”   


“You look great in that, Armie, by the way,” Timmy says, passing the vape pen back. “It’s a little nicer-looking than--” He cuts himself off before he can finish the sentence.

“Than what, Tim?” Armie nudges Timmy’s foot with his own.

Timmy looks up through his mop of curls and Armie can see that he’s blushing. Timmy never could refuse answering Armie, though. “Better than the tracksuit. The black one. Three months ago.”

Three months ago would have been the start of the whole run of the play. Armie remembers now, the black tracksuit that he had loved to wear so much around Timmy in Europe, loving that he could be himself around Timmy, wear what he wanted and be comfortable, and still see so much love in Timmy’s eyes that it made him want to be a better person just to earn it.

Wait, Armie realizes-- _ he had worn that tracksuit for luck when he’d left the play on the first night it opened. _

“You--you were there?” Armie asks, stunned.

Timmy kicks his Berluti monk-strap shoe against Armie’s brogue. “I was. I came for one night, I would have said something but I had to get right back on a plane to film again and I wouldn’t even have had time for dinner. I just wanted to see it, wanted to see you grow as an actor because I know plays sure did that for me and I was excited to see it in you. So that’s why I wanted to come tonight too, and see the closing show. And Armie, man, you were so good. All the way from the start you were good, but tonight you were even better. You’re such a fucking artist, man, and I knew you had it in you, and I just--” he catches Armie’s gaze and holds it, “I love you so much.”

Timmy’s never said  _ those _ words quite like _ this, _ hoarse and jagged like they come from a part of him so deep that Armie hasn’t seen it before, and his eyes on Armie’s are darker, more knowing than Armie suspected they could be. Armie draws a final hit from his vape pen and holds it in his lungs, thinking, and when he starts to lean toward Timmy his movements are instantly mirrored, and they close the distance between them in an instant. Armie’s eyes flick down to Timmy’s lips, as they always do when Timmy is close enough to him, a flash of sense memory from Crema that he can’t fight, he’s stopped trying to fight. Although he corrects for it and shifts his eyes to meet Timmy’s, he knows it’s too late and Timmy has seen, has noticed, knows what that means. When Armie opens his mouth to exhale, Timmy’s mouth is  _ right there _ , waiting to receive the smoke, and Armie watches in a daze as Timmy draws the vapor into his own mouth, pulls away, and taps his cheek so that the smoke flies out the window in a perfect O. Any time Armie has ever given him something, Timmy somehow touches it or perceives it or just  _ exists _ around it and comes away better, and this is no exception. It’s just what Timmy  _ does _ .

Armie’s breath is shaky when he inhales again, setting the vape pen on the windowsill and staring down at where his feet and Timmy’s are still touching. He feels a brush against his thigh and thinks for a moment it might be a breeze through the window, but when he looks up at his red velvet suit pants Timmy’s long fingers are idly tracing a pattern on his leg. When he sees Armie following his motions Timmy looks up with a smile that’s a little dazed from the hash pen but still powered by mischief underneath. “Does this make you happy?” Timmy murmurs.

“Yes,” Armie breathes, finally able to understand how hard it can be to say that word when you mean it so much that to say it out loud diminishes the strength of your desire.

“You know,” Timmy sighs, “I’ve always loved you in this suit. We’ve touched so much without clothes on, it almost feels novel to have fabric to touch when I do  _ this _ .” He skims his hand up Armie’s bicep, resting it on his shoulder and using it to draw himself closer to Armie. “And this velvet is so...soft,” and the last word is a whisper, and Timmy’s pitching forward onto Armie, nuzzling him, rubbing Armie’s shoulder with his nose, affectionate as always but now it’s electrified. The weed and smoke and time clear from Armie’s mind and he reaches to catch Timmy, encircles Timmy’s thin waist in his arms and turns, so Armie’s leaning against the windowsill instead of sitting on it, with Timmy pressed against him,  _ fully, at last, for months he’s imagined this but that was monochrome and to actually do it is Technicolor _ . He just holds Timmy there for a moment and they breathe a few times before they realize they’re breathing in sync without even thinking about it.

Timmy pulls back at that to give Armie a sheepish smile and Armie tentatively presses a kiss to his forehead. Timmy shudders beneath Armie’s hands and then Timmy’s arms are around Armie’s neck and he’s pulling at him, climbing him, and before Armie can think not to just laugh out of joy,  _ that would be too much, that’s a cliche _ , he’s doing it, giggling, and he feels Timmy’s legs slide up the side of his suit pants.  _ Those workouts in England must have done wonders for his core _ , Armie thinks, because now Timmy has the strength to pull his legs up to Armie’s waist and wrap them around him, and Armie slides his hands down to hold Timmy in place there, and for another moment they breathe, Timmy’s head on Armie’s shoulder, not rushing, not pushing.  _ They have time now _ . When Timmy raises his head to bring his lips to Armie’s for the first time as Timmy and not Elio, Armie’s elbow moves and the vape pen clatters out the window onto the sidewalk below.

But Armie can’t really say that he minds.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm dreamofhorses42 on Tumblr, feel free to say hi!


End file.
